She had escaped the bikers by simply driving away. The forest ranger might have noticed her license plate number, but he would hardly give it to those biker types. On the way back, she’d howled in fury as she drove straight to Langenhain to confront her mother. But here she’d found the cops in the house, claiming that Hanna had been attacked and raped, and asking stupid questions.
Meike was aware that her indifferent reaction must have seemed odd to the two police officers. She was all too familiar with the look she had seen in their eyes: a look of disgust. People often reacted to her that way, and it was her own fault because she provoked the response with her gruff attitude.
She used to try to be polite and nice to everyone. Even when she was feeling totally different inside, she had smiled and lied. In her fat phase, the shrinks had explained to her that her excessive weight was simply because she gobbled up everything in sight. That’s when she started saying exactly what she thought. At first, she was convinced that it would help her to be honest and upright, but over time she had begun to feel a malicious glee at antagonizing people, even though it made her highly unpopular. And she wasn’t shocked by what the cops had just told her. On the contrary, it merely exacerbated her anger toward Hanna. Why did her mother have to get involved with those sorts of people? All those antisocial individuals, those damaged psychos and criminals? Anyone who ventures into danger will die from it. That was one of the stupid proverbs that her father kept tossing around, but unfortunately, it had a core of truth.
When the police asked her whether Hanna had any enemies or had run into trouble with anyone lately, Meike had mentioned Norman Seiler and Jan Niemöller. Last night, Jan had been waiting in his car in the parking lot and had waylaid Hanna when she came out of the TV station. Meike also gave the police the name of her current stepfather and told them that someone had recently vandalized Hanna’s car.
She thought again about the message. Had Hanna found out something about a biker or done something to provoke the anger of the gang? Had she been attacked by them? Should she have mentioned this to the police?
Meike’s knees were shaking so hard that she had to sit down on the toilet seat lid. The fear that she’d almost managed to suppress now flooded over her in a black wave. She felt sick to her stomach. She wrapped her arms around her upper body and bent over.
Hanna had been beaten and raped. She was found unconscious, naked, and tied up in the trunk of her car. Oh God! That couldn’t be true! It simply
mustn’t
be true! She wouldn’t go to the hospital, ever. She didn’t want to see her mother like this, so weak and sick.
But what was she going to do? She
had
to talk to someone about all this—but who? Suddenly, the tears came, streaming down her cheeks, and couldn’t be stopped.
“Mama,” Meike sobbed. “Oh, Mama, what am I going to do?”
Her cell buzzed incessantly in her pocket. She pulled it out. Irina. Thirteen calls, four messages. No, she definitely didn’t want to talk to her. Or to her father, and she had no girlfriends she could talk to about something like this. She wiped away the tears with a piece of toilet paper, then opened her contact list, scrolling from
A
down. She stopped at one name. Of course. There was somebody she could call. Why hadn’t she thought of that earlier?
* * *
The social descent of Vinzenz Kornbichler had been colossal. From the spacious villa at the edge of the forest, he had been catapulted by fate to the sofa bed in a two-room apartment on the fourteenth floor of an apartment silo in the Limes district of Schwalbach. When he opened the door, Pia understood what Hanna Herzmann must have liked about the man, at least from a purely visual perspective. Vinzenz Kornbichler was in his early forties and unquestionably attractive, in a robust, boyish way: brown cocker-spaniel eyes, thick dark blond hair, an appealing, even pretty face.
“Come in.” His handshake was firm, his gaze direct. “I can’t invite you into the living room, I’m afraid. It’s a mess, because I’m only staying here temporarily.”
Bodenstein and Pia followed him into a sparsely furnished little room: a sofa bed, dresser, and small desk, a narrow mirror on the wall, behind the door a folded ironing board and a laundry rack.
“How long have you lived here?” Pia asked.
“A couple of weeks.”
“Why? You and your wife have a lovely house.”
Kornbichler frowned. His muscular upper arms told of countless hours in the fitness gym, while his neat clothing and carefully manicured hands revealed that he placed great value on his appearance.
“My wife has grown tired of me,” he said lightly, but with a bitter undertone in his voice. “She tends to switch out her husbands every so often. She threw me out over a trifle and closed all my accounts. After six years of doing
everything
for her.”
“What sort of trifle was it?” Pia wanted to know.
“Oh, it was insignificant. I just had a little something on the side, and she made a federal case out of it,” he replied evasively, looking past her into the mirror. He seemed to like what he saw, because he smiled with satisfaction.
He didn’t offer any further explanation for his expulsion from paradise. He didn’t blame himself for the unfair treatment he’d received and seemed not to notice how suspicious he was making himself appear with each word he spoke.
“It sounds like you’re rather angry,” Pia said.
“Of course I’m annoyed,” Vinzenz Kornbichler admitted. “I gave up my business for my wife’s sake, and now here I am with no home, no money, nothing! And she doesn’t even answer the phone when I call.”
“Where were you last night?” Bodenstein asked him.
“Last night?” Kornbichler looked at him in surprise. “What time?”
“Between eleven o’clock and three in the morning.”
Hanna Herzmann’s husband frowned in thought.
“I was at a bistro in Bad Soden,” he said after a moment. “From about ten-thirty on.”
“Until when?”
“I’m not sure exactly. Twelve-thirty or one, I guess. Why do you want to know?”
“Are there any witnesses who could corroborate your presence there?”
“Yes, of course. I was with a couple of friends. And the staff will no doubt remember me. Has something happened?”
Pia gave him a sharp look. His innocence seemed genuine, but maybe he was just a good actor. Was it possible that he had no idea what had happened, or why they wanted to speak with him?
“What type of car do you drive?” asked Pia.
“A Porsche. A 911, 4S, convertible.” Kornbichler grimaced. “Until she takes that away, too.”
“And where were you before you went to Bad Soden?” Bodenstein asked the exact question that Pia had been going to ask next. Sometimes, Pia thought with a hint of amusement, she and Bodenstein were like an old married couple. It was no wonder, after conducting hundreds of interviews and interrogations together.
The question obviously made Kornbichler uncomfortable.
“I drove around the area a bit,” he said, waffling. “Why is that important?”
“Your wife was attacked and raped yesterday,” Pia said. “She was found this morning, seriously injured and unconscious in the trunk of her car. And her neighbor told us that you were at her house yesterday.”
* * *
Markus Maria Frey had changed from his slick suit into jeans and a T-shirt. Right now, he was standing with two other fathers at the outdoor gas grill. All week, he’d been looking forward to the school celebration. Despite his tight calendar of appointments, he always made time for his children; he was the chairman of the parents’ association and had played a substantial role in organizing the party. All proceeds from the sale of food and drink and any donations would go toward construction of the new school library. The line waiting at the grill seemed endless. As fast as they took meat and sausages off the grill, the food was whisked out of their hands. The citizens of Königstein were generous when it came to charitable causes, and the school parents’ association had agreed to round upward the amount that was taken in.
The weather was being cooperative, and the mood was relaxed and festive.
Frey stayed at the grill until his relief arrived; then he was assigned to be a referee and assistant at the games on the athletic field—sack races, wheelbarrow races, bobbing for apples, tug-of-war. The children and their parents were having a great time, and Frey had at least as much fun just watching. How eager and focused the children were, with their red cheeks, shining eyes, and happy laughter. What could be better? They swarmed around him when the awards were handed out to the winners, but he also had consolation prizes and encouraging words for the kids who had lost. Children gave meaning to life.
The afternoon flew by. There were tears of disappointment to wipe away, adhesive bandages to apply to a skinned knee, and squabbles to settle.
“So, if you ever get bored at the state attorney’s office, you’re always welcome here with us at the day care,” someone said behind him. Frey turned around and looked into the smiling face of Mrs. Schirrmacher, the director of the city day-care centers.
“Hello, Mrs. Schirrmacher,” he said, returning her smile.
“Thank you,” chirped the little girl whose braid had just been newly plaited. She ran off to play.
“The children are hanging on you like leeches.”
“Yes, I know.” He watched the girl go as she jumped into the tumult at the bounce house. “It makes me happy, and I find it really relaxing.”
“I wanted to talk to you about our theater project,” Mrs. Schirrmacher said. “I wrote you an e-mail about it. Perhaps you recall it.”
Frey had a great fondness for the educator who was so involved in her job. With imagination and enthusiasm, she worked very hard on behalf of the children in her care, some of whom came from troubled families. She continually had to contend with the shrinking budget in the strained communal coffers.
“Of course I remember. I’ve already spoken with Mr. Wiesner from the Finkbeiner Foundation about it.”
They strolled across the grounds to the tents, where there was still a line at the grill and drink stands.
“Normally, we don’t support outside projects, but in this case we decided to make an exception,” Frey went on. “It’s a very ambitious program, and it will also benefit children from disadvantaged families. So you can count me in. Including a donation of five thousand euros.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful! Thank you so much.” Mrs. Schirrmacher’s eyes glittered with tears, and in her excitement she pressed a kiss to his cheek. “We were afraid that we’d have to give up the whole project because of lack of funding.”
Markus Maria Frey smiled, a bit embarrassed. He always found it awkward to receive gratitude for such a trifle.
“Papa?” Jerome, his eldest son, came running up, out of breath, a cell phone in his hand. “It rang a couple of times already. You left it at the grill stand.”
“Thanks, big guy.” He took the cell and tousled his son’s disheveled hair. The phone promptly rang again.
“Please excuse me for a moment,” Frey said, reading the name on the display. “I have to take this.”
“Yes, of course,” Mrs. Schirrmacher said, and Frey moved a few paces away.
“It’s just not convenient,” he said into the phone. “Could I—”
He stopped speaking when he heard the tension in the caller’s voice. In silence, he listened, and within seconds his anger turned to bewilderment. Despite the heat, he found himself shivering.
“Are you a hundred percent certain?” he asked in a low voice, glancing at his watch. He was standing in the shade of a huge cherry laurel, and the lovely sunny day seemed suddenly clouded by a gray veil. “I’ll meet you in an hour. Find a place we can meet and let me know, okay?”
His thoughts were churning like crazy. Could a person in Germany simply vanish from the surface of the earth—for fourteen years? A burial without a body? A gravestone, flowers, and candles on an empty grave? After everything that had happened, the news of the death made him sad, but mostly relieved. The danger that had threatened everyone had seemed averted once and for all.
Frey ended the call and stared into space for a moment.
He realized what it meant, if what he’d just heard was true. It was undoubtedly the worst thing that could have happened. The nightmare was going to begin all over again.
* * *
“Good God!” Kornbichler straightened up and his eyes opened wide. “I … I didn’t know that. How is … I mean … oh shit. I’m really sorry.”
“Why were you in Langenhain? Why did you go there?” Pia asked.
“I … I…” He ran his hand through his hair, fidgeting nervously as he sat on the sofa bed. “You … You don’t think that I raped and injured my wife, do you?”
He didn’t sound outraged; he sounded shocked.
“We haven’t come to any conclusions,” replied Bodenstein. “Right now, you just need to answer our questions.”
“Why didn’t anyone call to tell me about this?” Kornbichler shook his head and looked at his smartphone. “Irina or Jan should have informed me.”
“What were you looking for in your wife’s house in Langenhain?” Bodenstein asked, repeating Pia’s question. “And why didn’t you tell us at once that you’d been there?”
“You asked about the period from eleven to three in the morning,” Kornbichler countered quickly. “I had no idea what this was all about.”
“So why did you think that Kripo wanted to talk to you?” Pia asked.
“Honestly, I had no clue,” he said with a shrug.
Pia watched the play of emotions on his face. Vinzenz Kornbichler was clearly insulted and angry, but was he capable of the kind of brutality that Hanna Herzmann had been subjected to?
“Does your wife have any enemies?” Bodenstein asked. “Was she ever threatened in the past?”
“Yes, there was a guy who stalked her once, quite seriously,” Kornbichler said. “It was shortly before Hanna and I met. By then, he’d been convicted and sent to prison.”
That sounded interesting. Kornbichler didn’t know the man’s name, but he promised to ask Irina Zydek about it.